


summerboy.

by duttydan (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Claustrophobia, Cryophobia, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Isaac Lahey/Erica Reyes/Vernon Boyd, Scott's relationship with his First Beta, mind tricks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/duttydan
Summary: Inside Isaac Lahey's mind.





	summerboy.

**Author's Note:**

> okay first off, sorry if the canon events are a little out of order, i haven't watched in a while.
> 
> another phobia thing wOW.  
> i admit that i don't know how to write isaac for shit i just love his character so bear with me please and thanks.

 

When Isaac was initially offered the chance of staying at the McCall residence, to bond with a kid that had the potential to be his lifelong Alpha, he denied vehemently.  
  
He was too distraught, too caught up within his own head to say anything—sticking to a blunt, but unsure _no_ ,and he repeated it for quite a while.  
  
In fact, it wasn’t until he was let out of Derek’s loft altogether when he decided to distance himself from the elder, where he realized he had nowhere to go and not a penny in his pocket to get him there.  
  
Scott, being the persistent, kindred bleeding heart he is, never let up on that offer, and always kept it up, open, and out on the table. Isaac accepts warily, bringing with him heaps of grief and baggage.

  
  
**••**

  
  
Isaac and Scott had already seen each other around because of the lacrosse team. Isaac joined the team late, showcasing just enough skill to be accepted by the established team—and Coach Finstock liked him more that Greenberg regardless.  
  
Before all the lycanthropic shenanigans, Isaac was about as normal as they come—maybe slightly above average, maybe drooping just below it—but he was there; or he at least looked the part. He was an amazing student—constantly pushing a high 3-point-something GPA that his teachers refused to round up because of how poor his science scores were. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t understand the study of the natural world around him. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know which elements not to mix. Everyone had their lower points. But aside from his standing 3.8 and excellent track record for lacrosse, he was fairly liked. It was because he wasn’t the most loquacious, and he figured that his personality was generally ideal since people love a good listener. He only spoke to crack a joke or two, more to make himself laugh than the recipient.  
  
But that didn’t matter; because that was just at school. At home, the only thing that stood between him and certain doom was a pricy dinner table that was constantly getting misused. The darkest hour of the night for him was six thirty; dinnertime. That was the moment he always loathed the most, having to face his father and eat a tense, bitter meal. The air was always harder to breath when his father attempted any form of small talk, which all felt like a test of strength and wits to Isaac—something he swears he wasn’t good at. He’s not witty. It was almost like his father just needed a reason; he just wanted a reason to be set off.  
  
If Isaac didn’t answer his questions, he’d feel the heat.  
  
If Isaac didn’t answer correctly,  he’d feel the heat.  
  
If Isaac answered in the wrong tone, he’d feel the heat.  
  
The boy couldn’t breath in his own house.  
  
“How many goals did you score?” His father asked about last weekend’s game, “I was kind of disappointed I couldn’t make it. Work.”  
  
The words are so apologetic but the apathy was clear and cut like a knife.  
  
Isaac was a proficient liar, but his father could read him like an open book—and was a serial perfectionist—which actually scared him immensely.  
  
He hastily puts some food in his mouth, swallowing, “That night, I only got one in—“  
  
“ _Only?_ ”  
  
“Yeah... only.”  
  
“Why couldn’t you do any better?” The discontent rang loudly in his ears, even though the man still was flexing his inside voice. “I mean, Jesus, kid,” he scoffs, “you two are nothing alike, huh?”  
  
There he goes. Talking about Cam. He would, could never stop comparing poor sixteen-year-old gangly Isaac to his better-in-every-way, pride-and-joy, fallen soldier of a brother. Isaac never stopped feeling jealous of his brother; even in death he was superior in every way and his father would never let him live it down. He clearly loved one son over the other, and Isaac was okay with that part, he was there first after all—he just wasn’t okay with having to constantly compete with someone he didn’t want to compete with for the affection of someone he no longer wanted anything to do with.  
  
His dad was ranting, talking about how he doesn’t have tuition money to be paying for college so he needs to get his act right both in the books and in the field. Isaac can’t multitask in the slightest.  
  
The fractured ego and torn self-esteem speaks, “I can’t do that,” he says it like a plea. “I know I’m... disappointing.”  
  
“What do you mean you can’t? School’s not a place for you to be a lowlife quitter!”  
  
“I guess I’m just not built for it!” He argues, food disregarded. “I can’t be _perfect_ , Dad,” _I can’t be Camden, I won’t ever be Camden,_ he wants to express, “I don’t even know if I’m going to col—“  
  
With a swiftness his father slaps him, red print vibrant on his cheek even in the dim lighting. He hated the fact that his shorter man overpowered him, dragging him to the basement as he cries out pitifully, stumbling over his own feet with wide, teary eyes. “Wait—Dad—I’m sorry!”  
  
“None of that now,” he spoke with finality and unabashed anger, “Get in the damn freezer, jackass!” He doesn’t ask him to, but he shoved him, locking it with a loud click, signaling that he won’t be back for a while. Isaac hated the indefinite time periods. His tall frame was compacted and folded into a tiny, cold, dark box. As his tears dropped, they froze up against his face, and the most he could do was shiver and pray.  
  
He wails in the soundproof box and feels the frost touching on his elbows, steadily crawling up his arm. The darkness forces him into his own head, which forces him into his insecurities, which forces him to doubt everything. The thought always crosses his mind at least six times in this moment—he was going to die in this freezer.

  
  
**••**

  
  
After the wolverine witchcraft had entered Isaac’s life, he carried a new breed of baggage. _A pack_. Being a werewolf was obviously something Isaac had never experienced before, he was a novice to it all. His initial thought after successfully getting bitten and initiated into the Hale Pack by Derek was that the enhanced senses and physical abilities were cool. Plus, being a wolf-man gave him all the more reason to stay away from his home for longer periods of time since he had something _—anything—_ to do and it would almost always beat being alone in a house with his dad after a bad day.  
  
However, what Isaac disliked was the enhanced emotional dependence. Isaac didn’t think being in a pack would suddenly make him so codependent on the other wolves. He knew he was friends with his pack members Boyd and Erica, and he looked to Derek as a wiser, stronger man, almost like a den father. But he actually found himself doing things for them that he wouldn’t even do for himself, and when the lunar cycle got a little funny with the side effects, he would catch himself drunkenly talking about how much he loved Vernon and Erica almost exclusively, like the sun shone out of their asses or something; even saying he’d want to spend the rest of his life with them.  
  
He never dropped the L-word with anyone—he hadn’t even said it to his father in the past seven, eight, _nine-_ ish years? And there was a boundary between him a Derek that ran further than him just being the Alpha; it was because he was the boss.  
  
Then, Isaac’s damaged psyche was harmed more when that toenail bitch Kali, of a rival pack made entirely of full-blown natural Alphas, murdered the only two people he’s ever loved in a long time.  
  
Isaac had survivor’s guilt. He felt emotionally drained, and found himself mournfully howling on more than one occasion; even to the point of being gagged by Derek. He feels physical pain that he’s one hundred percent sure his brain is making up out of either his human or canine side to make him feel a fraction of what they felt. It hurts everywhere, all the time.  
  
It only takes a week or two for Derek’s hope to crumble when he realizes his pack isn’t even in shambles because his pack no longer exists, period. Derek stresses and grieves in silence. Never speaking to Isaac on it, and never offering any advice or solace or guidance on how to deal with such an intense grief. Maybe Derek didn’t understand. Yet he should have. A beta bond had potential to be just as strong as two mated alphas. They were the three musketeers and Derek was supposed to be their trusty leader. It failed horribly.

  
  
**••**

  
  
Isaac’s resentment grew towards Derek, a lot, solely for the purpose of being one of the best and shittiest teachers ever to walk the Earth. Derek had bitten him, altering his entire DNA structure, and wouldn’t even give an in-depth explanation on how to use it. Not everybody could just ‘feel it’ like him.  
  
Isaac wasn’t a natural born wolf like Derek. But he was definitely hardheaded.   
  
Isaac wasn’t Derek. He couldn’t be. And he outright _refused_ to be.

But he still valued his... allegiance? Companionship? Civility? He didn’t know where they stood anymore.  
  
Isaac returned to his father’s home after a while of freeloading off of Derek. He hated how bad it sounded, but he was itching for his routine, like an addict. Going back home was an act of self-destruction.  
  
What he’s greeted with. “I hope your ass has been going to school, runaway. You left in a dramatic flash, only to come runnin’ back since you can’t handle yourself. It’s what you get for being an entitled little sixteen-year-old. What were you thinkin’?”  
  
He bows his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

  
  
**••**

  
  
Report cards came out on this day and Isaac Lahey’s name was definitely not on the honor roll list. Granted, he still had a passing grade this semester, but the ugly 61 staring at him, jabbing him, was destined to be discussed and... handled.  
  
“What’s your grades lookin’ like, kid?”  
  
It’s dinner time again, instead of microwaveable spaghetti, it’s food from Beacon Hills’ one and only international buffet.  Guess he wanted to go all out for the big day, Isaac assumes. He doesn’t know, though.  
  
Isaac clears his throat. The report is in his hand, twiddling under the table, but he slickly boasts, “I actually have higher than I need in French III, I’ve got a 104. In English, I’ve got a 96.”  
  
These percentages made his father crack a minute smile, that still seemed like a eerie glare. “Math? What do you take?”  
  
“It’s Geometry. I’m, uh, pushing an 89.”  
  
“Painting?”  
  
“96.”  
  
“Gym?” And he starts rambling, “And I swear on everything if you’ve fucked this up, I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”  
  
“I have a hundred in that class.”  
  
“Alright—“ Isaac sighed, but his father continues, “And Chemistry?”  
  
He sighed too soon. A nervous sweat sprouts on his hands and he can hear the blood as it’s rushing out of his heart and through his bloodstream. He can physically feel his brain sloshing around in his head as he wrecks himself trying to find a way to duck and dodge the question. “What did you say, again?”  
  
“I asked about your Chemistry scores. Surely, they’ve gotta be stupendous, right?” His father has the nerve to throw a grin in his direction.  
  
He _wants_ to get violent. He definitely does. Isaac forgot how much he hated being a punching bag for his father’s pent up emotional constipation; but he abhors the fact that he willingly walked back into it. Derek’s domestic abuse was definitely better in a sense... it was definitely different, definitely with a defined purpose, definitely to make him a stronger beta. It was  different because it was training. His dad was just a reckless, psychotic freak!  
  
“I,” he chokes out, curly hair darkly obscuring the sight of his father’s jaded visage. “It’s a 61.”  
  
A glass is smashed, shards flung at him, and one grazed him, healing instantly. He had to play it off; yet his anger wasn’t allowing him. He wasn’t sure if he was angry at his dad for being violent, or just extremely annoyed at his cluelessness in general.  
  
“Dad!” He shouts, “You could’ve taken out my eye!” He couldn’t contain the words.  
  
“Maybe I should’ve! Wherever the hell you went, you should’ve been in those book while you were at it. Maybe you would’ve learned something! It’s like you’re getting dumber! No son of mine is a goddamn ignoramus!”  
  
The beating he gets that night is extensive, just like the extra half hour he spends in the freezer. The wounds heal, but slower, and the frost licking up his limbs and into welts continued to sting and burn and sting and burn. He wheezes, and it reminds him of the cold airy pain in the chest he feels when he worked out too hard for his feeble human body to handle. He still feels it strongly, but how he can fight off the urge to shut his eyes and give up. He screams though.

  
**  
••**

  
  
When a shapeshifting lizard-man kills his father in cold blood, he doesn’t know whether to rejoice or not. Is it a blessing? He doesn’t know. Where it came from? He does know.  
  
His old friend Matt was behind it.  
  
So, no it wasn’t a blessing, but no it wasn’t a curse neither. Isaac is disgusted with his indifference. That was the man that raised him. His teeth instinctively chattered just at the thought of the man. He was actually more concerned about the fact that he was the prime suspect.

He skips the funeral but does spy long enough to see when they bury the ashes that were sealed in a red china vase.  
  
He dips immediately after.

  
**  
••**

  
  
  
With some ups and downs including Scott actually asserting dominance with a powerful growl, and forcing the beta in him to submit, Isaac warms up to Scott and eventually becomes a team McCall front-liner. He still didn’t feel welcome; but it was all in his head. Scott was incredibly hospitable, giving him a spare room and supplying everything he needed, and his mother, Melissa, was so caring and nurturing that Isaac had no other choice but to think of her as some sort of godsend fairy godmother herself.  
  
The first day in Scott’s home was relatively smooth. He couldn’t sleep at all the night before, though; he was extremely restless and wasn’t about to go digging for pills to aid his stress-induced insomnia.  
  
He tried closing his eyes and all he saw was remnants of all that was wrong with his life.  
  
He slowly blinks. He sees his mother, the woman he _used_ to know and the first woman he ever loved; now he can barely remember her face except for one specific photo that he keeps of her. She raised him for a great chunk of his childhood. But that didn’t matter regardless because she birthed him so he had love for her by default. Yet it still seemed so pitiful and upsetting. Sickness snatched her away in the blink of an eye.  
  
He slowly blinks. It’s Camden he spots this time. He’s all the way fucked up in ever way imaginable at every limb. His charming older brother was drowning in his own blood and probably died in the most heroic was possible, righteously and fearlessly _helping others_ without a second thought crossing his mind. He’s everything Isaac isn’t—and should wish to be, right? But he’s not built the same. Never was. Camden’s selfless and smart.  
  
He slowly blinks again. He tries to sleep but his eyes only snap open and closed. He sees that face. Erica Reyes—a girl who was always cute, but didn’t always believe it. She accepted her canine features with a vicious air of confidence and she’d fight her way. Sometimes, being around her felt like it was an Erica world and they were all just living in it. This was the first girl he actually loved and was _in love_ with. Isaac had once made a pact with her and Boyd, separate from authentic pack business, just to stay together, a unit. Isaac promised to forever be loyal to the Reyes pack, regardless of where the wind blew him.  
  
Once his eyes shut for the nth time, he caught sight of Boyd. He was quiet, almost silent, but he always had a sale to pitch. He was always there to motivate Isaac at his lower points, when he was certain that he couldn’t be this big, bad beta that he was supposed to be. He sold him strength and comradery. He always told Isaac to make his fists as smart as his mouth when fighting—nitpicking at the fact that Isaac always did have a snide comment bubbling at the back of his throat. Isaac liked that Boyd could read him him but never pried. He _loved_ it, in fact.  
  
He blinks once more, this one more heavy-lidded, and he falls asleep to the sound of a nightmare brewing, starring his father.  
  
He falls asleep suddenly, slipping into a less than peaceful slumber that has him tossing and turning in a matter of minutes. His teeth chattered and his body fought the thin sheets. It was warm outside, so none of the rooms needed actual blankets. They didn’t know Isaac’s conditions.  
  
He was kind of like damaged goods.  
  
Claustrophobia with a side of freezer-phobia to match. He didn’t know the name of it but it felt real. He felt the temperature  drop significantly, and he swore he woke up, but his eyes were sealed shut in a cloak of darkness.  
  
So now he’s curled up in a ball, claws retracted and fangs stabbing into his own mouth, and he’s shivering, stuck still. He stays like this for a few more minutes, heartbeat quickening.  
  
He’s not going to wake up? Is he?  
  
There was an off chance.  
  
This was it. This was definitely the moment he’d die of hypothermia. Right when he wants to put his life on some sort of track and put the supernatural gang affiliations behind him.  
  
Then he could move, and his first instinct was to scratch at the freezer. So he did; frantically shouting and slashing with obsidian-like claws, slashing through everything in jagged lines.  
  
Scott finds him and he frantically tries to snap him out of it with semi-gentle shakes. “Isaac!”  
  
He woke up, wearily and disoriented; now shivering _violently_.  
  
“Isaac, dude, wake up,” Scott’s hands were still holding him upright, and he felt like he was holding a giant block if ice. He snaps fingers in his face, trying to get his eyes to follow his hand in the moonlight. “Isaac? Isaac, look at me,” Scott showed his other eyes, glowing a fierce blood red.  
  
Isaac returns the favor, golden eyes bright, showing his consciousness. He shoves the alpha off of him with a petulant grunt.  “W-What happened?” He stammered.  
  
“You are freezing. What the hell?” Scott was a little panicked, and his mother—the only registered nurse in the household—wasn’t home. It may be stress. He chocked it up to stress. “I need you to take a deep breath and calm down.”  
  
“I just had a full-blown panic attack in my sleep and totaled your sheets—“ he stutters some more, eyeing the shredded sheets caught in his claws. “So... how can I calm down?”  
  
“Breath slowly, and if you want, talk? I dunno, you’re worrying me—“  
  
“I,” he huffs, “Remember how... I told you about my dad? What he did?” He had a counterfeit smile on his lips that was visible in the moonlight.  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“I didn’t tell you everything,” he says solemnly, before continuing.  
  
Isaac doesn’t know why, but the ability to vent comes easy between him and Scott, and he was more fearless when mentioning it. 

Dead men can’t touch the living.  
  
But Isaac, was kind of like a happy exterior, with a destroyed endoskeleton. He was faking it till he made it. So, recounting his life to the alpha truly served as a therapeutic, bonding experience.   
  
“I’ll go get you some blankets,” the other hastily responded before returning with two thick ones that he felt were necessary.  
  
“My father used to beat the living crap outta me too,” and Isaac gives a sinister laugh at the memories while cocooning himself, “I was such a nuisance to him since I wasn’t perfect enough. He just lost it ever since...” he paused, “nearly forever. And on top of that I was just a sidekick for Derek’s whole ultimate alpha operation, which really never let me know where I stand with him; and on top of that, the two people I loved the most were taken away from me while they were innocent and just trying to escape this crazy-ass town!” He grunts, now more irate than anything else. “Fuck.”  
  
“Your father should be brought to justice. He can be reported.”  
  
“He’s dead. And thanks to supernatural healing, there’s no evidence on my body.”  
  
“It still doesn’t mean you can’t get closure by putting the guilty label on his record forever. I would rather be fatherless than deal with that type of scum. But you’re strong to go through that and come out on top, and you don’t have to prove it to anyone, but yourself, because we all _see_ your strength.”  
  
“Let’s hope that pep-talk works this time,” was Isaac’s smart comment. “Look, uh, thanks for looking out for me but...”  
  
“But what?”  
  
“Nothing. I just wanna sleep.”  
  
“You sure you’re okay?” Scott looked at him with red eyes, prompting him to look.  
  
Isaac nods, hoping the other reads it as a thank-you.

  
  
**••**

  
  
The next morning, they don’t talk about it. They eat breakfast in silence and Melissa, fatigued from her night shift, only comes down to say good morning.  
  
She wears a soft robe when she says, “You two are so quiet. Are we good here?”  
  
Scott nods. “We’re good, Mom.”  
  
She turns to the beta. “You’re good?”  
  
He nods. “Yeah,” he fumbles, heartbeat stuttering.  
  
Scott perks up at this.  
  
A chill runs through Isaac.  
  
He better not say anything.

  
**  
••**

  
  
Isaac goes into his chemistry class and the radiator is completely destroyed. The period beforehand had a huge fight that broke out between four boys who were guaranteed a long-term suspension, but during the brawl, they had slammed the heater.  
  
So while he’s trying to solve a few chemical equations, his whole frame shudders and he taps his foot unconsciously. It wasn’t that cold outside—it was warm, with some cool breeze—but indoors it felt like it was nearly reaching twenty degrees Fahrenheit.  Isaac exhales, and he sees his breath. A hand runs through his dry, curly hair and stays there.  
  
He knows it’s all just his mind playing tricks on him—when he looks around and no one is shivering intensely, just mildly complaining about the chilliness, it’s confirmed. This is California, of course it’s not that bad! But the sudden drop from the hallway into this classroom was too sudden; it felt too familiar—it was too cold but not cold _enough—_ and Isaac couldn’t figure out what that means. He was on edge and he groans out a very guttural groan, and it was an extremely pained sound, like bordered a whimper.  
  
His breath was shaky, and he felt his fingernails elongating and hardening to something lethal. “Oh my God, no, no, no...” he mutters, hiding his hands under the table and refusing to work at all. He digs razor like claws into his thighs and keeps his head downwards.  
  
The person sitting to the right of him, notices  the turmoil and saves him. “Ms. B, can Isaac go to the nurse’s office?  He looks like he’s in a lot of pain.”  
  
Thank God for Sheila. She even offered to walk with him. Isaac sharply says no.  
  
The teacher nods at both of them and he rushed out a thanks, running into the hallway to find warmth—or just a regular California temperature. While he’s out there, he bobs and weaves through the halls, going into his locker to find his sweater. He doesn’t unlock it, he rips the lock off, stupidly; but he doesn’t give a damn.  
  
He has to return to the coldest classroom in the school and not wolf out.

Quite the challenge.

  
“I can’t believe this shit,” he says clearly about himself, “This isn’t right. I can’t be afraid of some cold.”

  
**  
••**

  
  
Scott can smell the disorientation on Isaac rolling off in rivulets but he decides to not say anything. Isaac wouldn’t tell him anyways. Isaac had already given him all he needed to know about his father, and even that was a shocker—he doubted he was gonna get any deeper.  
  
It’s a free period, and Isaac is outside sitting on a bench in the garden, fervently rubbing his hands together.  
  
Scott taps his shoulder, “You cold, man?”  
  
Scott himself was toting a leather jacket, but it was for display, obviously. Isaac’s messily thrown on cardigan was not.  
  
“You cannot be cold—it’s eighty degrees,” Stiles exclaimed, “like on the dot! Eighty.”  
  
Isaac shrugs. “Whatever, Stilinski. I came here to relax, definitely not to hear rambling from the one human friend.”  
  
“Was that an insult? Dude, you barely know me,” Stiles scoffed.  
  
Isaac rolls his eyes and shrugs, “I know you’re the one human friend.”  
  
“No! Allison!”  
  
“Oh,” the cherubic boy squints, “pretty Allison with the long black hair?”  
  
Scott nudges him. “Yeah, my girlfriend. She’s human.”  
  
“Bet she’s still cooler than you, though, Stiles.”  
  
He couldn’t even argue with that. Grumbling, “Well, I mean, yeah, she’s a pro hunter but... I’m the _brains_ behind everything,” he proclaims.  
  
“Oh, okay,” Isaac nods pretentiously.  
  
Scott chuckles at their banter, almost baby-like if it weren’t for the fact that he was Scott. “You two are funny,” he giggles.  
  
“Ew.” Isaac responds.

  
**  
••**

  
  
Just because Isaac had a little kinda-sorta brotherly fun picking on Stiles does not mean that Scott forgot the chemo signals high in the air. So, when Isaac and Scott come home after a long day of practice, Isaac hits the shower, too worn out to take note of the other leaving back out again.  
  
He returns moments later, when Isaac was already clad in pajamas.  
  
Scott knocks on the bedroom door and when Isaac opens it, he sees him fumbling with a black scarf in his hands.  
  
He keeps rotating it, nervously kneading in between his hands.  
  
“Uh, yes?”  
  
“This is for you,” he presents awkwardly. “You never seem comfortable, and your teeth are always chattering.”  
  
Isaac gets defensive and incredulously asks, “Always? I’ve barely been here two days and my teeth are _always_ chattering?”  
  
Scott stands his ground, “When you’re not talking, yes—sometimes. Or gnashing; very biblical. I figured that you’d like one of these, or at least make good use of it.”  
  
Isaac blinks foolishly. Was Scott offering him a security blanket?  
  
“So what’s this, a placebo?”  
  
“A what-now?” Scott says dumbly. “If that’s a bad thing, then no. Just take it.”  
  
“What if I don’t want to?”  
  
“I already ripped up the receipt.”  
  
“Oh...” he pauses pensively. “Fine. Don’t expect a ‘thank you.’”  
  
The new alpha shrugged. “That’s cool. If you take it, that’s enough.”  
  
Isaac takes the scarf and bundles it around his neck. A security blanket—this dude McCall was a different breed of dumb.  
  
Scott didn’t have to do that, he wasn’t asked to; but maybe the satisfaction of doing good was just addictive to him. Angels weren’t supposed to be a tangible thing in the real world, and if they were, they weren’t supposed to be built as killing machines either.  
  
Scott’s eyes flash pearly red once as he smiles, satisfied, and Isaac’s own eyes naturally respond. He didn’t know if that was to comfort him or to communicate that he knew something, but it helped somehow.

**  
••**

  
  
Isaac now has a first to his growing collection of mufflers. Some of them, most of them actually, aren’t even for warmth. They just make him feel good. Better.  
  
Stiles jives at it but Isaac is unperturbed. “A new scarf today? C’mon now, man. Will you ever take ‘em off?”  
  
“To tie your mouth shut,” he chuckles, “maybe.”

**  
••**

  
  
So this was what it felt like to have a true alpha, and be involved in the pack that cared for each other more than they cared for themselves. It was euphoric.  
  
It was  weird _—strange, actually—_ that the people he liked (he wouldn’t say love just yet—probably not out loud, ever) weren’t hurting or abandoning him. It was an odd but welcomed sensation.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If this doesn’t remind you of mikasa and eren then i’ve failed oOf


End file.
